Mentor
by All-lost-things
Summary: Basically, Katniss is reaped along with a random boy from District 12, wins as a lone Victor, comes home, and then Peeta is reaped the year after and she has to mentor him. I plan to continue.
1. Chapter 1

I stand by the side of the stage, watching the Capitol woman with her silly accent. I'm almost tempted to laugh at how ridiculous she looks in comparison with our drab District, but I'm too busy trying desperately hard to suppress the memory of this day last year. Effie Trinket, now promoted to a higher District after my spectacular victory last year, calling out Prim's name. The feeling in my chest as I ran forward, knowing I would do anything to save my little sister. Watching blankly as a 13 year old boy I didn't know was reaped too. The horrible feeling of relief that it wasn't Gale.

I never think about the reaping, because it seems so mediocre in compared to what I went through in the arena. Teaming up with Rue, holding her while she died, how terrifying the Careers were. How easily I could have died too if Cato hadn't slipped and fell off the Cornucopia at the last moment, taking Foxface with him. The Games were almost over in record time, so to provide some entertainment they drove the final three of us together using horrible mutts. The final test: brains, brawn or courage. Her intelligence verses his raw strength verses my absolute determination to make it back to Prim. My District partner was out of the running on the first day. He ran in to the Cornucopia, lured in by the copious food and limitless weaponry, and was dead within minutes. Stupid boy.

But I was different. No-one expected me to do as well as I did, least of all, me. I received a record breaking eleven for my skills in training, but in my interview I was silly and girlish and annoying. The other boy from my District didn't even get a look in. We were both set on fire by my phenomenal stylist, Cinna, but I was the only one to make any impact. I didn't get as many sponsors as the Careers, but I got enough to send me bread and burn medicine when the Gamemakers felt like setting me of fire themsleves. And that was enough for me to survive.

Haymitch, the only other Victor from our District, pretty much ignored the boy from day 1. But I had been so determined to survive and get back to Prim that I think I made an impact on him, so occasionally he stayed sober enough to give me invaluable advice. Don't show off during training, wait until you're alone with the Gamemakers. Don't run in to the Cornucopia (I had almost lost me resolve on that one but luckily I had remembered just in time) and most importantly, stay alive.

Once I was in the arena, I had almost died from dehydration on the first couple of days, had trekked right to the outer reaches of the arena and burned by fireballs from the Gamemakers themselves. It had all picked up from there, however; I had killed two Careers by dropping a tracker-jacker nest on them, teamed up with Rue, blown up the supplies. People were dropping off in rapid numbers: the boy from 3, Rue and Marvel all were killed in rapid succession. One of them by my arrow through his throat.

That had left me, Cato, Clove, Thresh and Foxface. No real action happened for a couple of days so they called a feast, telling us all they had something we needed. I was doing well by this point; hunting through the day, sleeping in the trees at night. There was nothing I desperately needed, so I didn't go. That night I watched the sky and saw that Clove and Thresh had been killed - I suspect that Thresh killed her and then Cato killed him. That left the three of us: Cato, Foxface and me. They had always been my most formidable opponents. They used mutts, horrible ones with the eyes of the other tributes, to draw us together. We all made it to the Cornucopia, Foxface panicking for the first time. I don't blame her; there was no way her intelligence could help her now. Cato had tackled me first, and tough I was able to dip out of his way, he had suceeded in ripping the arrows from my back and thrown them over the side. There the three of us were; all of us weaponless, with certain death below us. It was merely luck and possibly fate that meant that Cato had slipped and fallen, his arm around Foxface's throat. Mere chance that made me a Victor. I may have earned my place in the top three, but being the winner was a coincidence. And now I have to mentor this years tributes.

I watch as she plucks a name from the bowl that contains thousands of slips of paper, the name of every girl in the District written in careful handwriting. I hear her call it, willing myself to stay present, not to slip back into memories of the past. It won't be Prim. It just won't, it can't, it musn't. Though how exciting would that be for the Capitol? The Girl on Fire's little sister, now with no-one to volunteer in her place, taking her own turn in the arena. A Games that no-one would ever forget.

"Allysia Ketworth" the woman calls in her stupid accent, and relief rushes through me like a drug. Relaxing slightly more, I lean forward and look at the girl I will have to coach and send off to her almost inevitable death. She looks about 15, is slightly taller than I am, but very skinny. Her face is not unattractive, smooth olive skin and big eyes, soft brown curls framing her face, although at the moment it is crippled by fear and shock. She isn't crying though, and this makes me feel slightly better. She's strong, I tell myself. Although chances are, she won't survive.

The woman is dipping into the boys' names now, and I feel my chest tighten again. Gale is out of the Reaping now, he's too old, but his younger brother Rory is in there with no-one to volunteer to take his place. His name is in only once, but that doesn't really provide any comfort. Prim's name was in only once, too.

But when the name rings out in her clear voice, it is not Rory Hawthorne. It is another name, one that I also know.

Peeta Mellark.

_Oh no,_ I think. _Not him._

Because although we are not friends, Peeta and I, and we have had only one conversation in our entire lives, I know him. I've known him my whole life, but never really thought about him until we were eleven, until he saved my life by burning some loaves of bread and tossing them to me, taking a beating from his mother, and in doing so saved the lives of me, my mother and Prim. And just last year, he came to see me after I had been reaped. He had brought cookies and looked as though he wanted to say something, but just as he opened his mouth, Gale had come barging in. Peeta had blushed, glanced at my surprised face once more, and fled. I had no time at all to think about this meeting until I was back home in District 12, living in the Victor's village, able to purchase fresh bread from the bakery thanks to my winnings. I had never asked him about it though, what he had been trying to achieve by coming to see me. And now I have to mentor him, because Haymitch has got a lot worse since last year and I doubt he is capable of helping me much at all. Just my luck.

Peeta and the girl who I've already forgotten the name of are whisked off the Justice Building and I'm allowed an hour to say goodbye to Prim, my mother, and Gale, because I will be spending the next few weeks in the Capitol. Gale is waiting for me as soon as I leave the square and he walks with back up to my house in Victor's Village.

It's strange now, the relationship between Gale and me. Before the arena, we were best friends, more than best friends, each other's closest confidante and the only people we could rely on. I always thought we might be more, perhaps even marry, if I ever got married. When I returned to District 12 he kissed me, just once, the second that I got away from all the cameras. He told me how much he had missed me. I could think of nothing but the feeling of his lips. I wonder if that's how all kisses feel.

When we get home, I sweep Prim into my arms and plant my lips on her forehead. I briefly hug my mother, thinking of this time last year when I thought I was seeing them for my last time. How worried I was about their survival, begging my mother not to phase out again. Credit to her, Gale swears he never saw her so alert and strong as when I was in the arena. I don't have to worry about that now, though. My winnings have given my mother and sister more than they will ever need.

And then it's finally time to leave, so I wrap my arms around Gale and breathe deeply, thinking about how much easier it was when he was just my hunting partner. I decline his offer to walk me back down into town. I want to walk alone to clear my head. But just as I've walked out of my front door, I hear it open again, and Gale walks out and grabs my arm. He pulls me around and kisses me again, more firmly this time. I have no idea what to say or what to do; my brain appears to have gone blank, and all I can think about is how this is the wrong time, wrong place, because I'm about to travel to the Capitol to watch children kill one another for sport. And that doesn't leave space for much else.

Eventually he pulls away, and his eyes have a strange look in them when they meet mine. I turn away and start the walk into town. My brain begins to see clearly for the first time today.

_Peeta Mellark._

Why him? The odds were in his favour. He never had to take tesserae. He is the son of the Baker, very well-fed by District 12 standards. That means he's strong, at least. Maybe he's too kind to be in the arena, though. I can't stop thinking about that day with the bread.

I get onto the train just in time. I have a different compartment this year, one that I have to share with Haymitch, but he's fast asleep, a bottle in his hand. I sit in one of the plush velvet armchairs and once again marvel at the decadence, wonder how people can live this way when children are left to starve in the Seam. It makes me sick. I will never get used to it.

I sit in the chair listening to Haymitch snore for at least half an hour, carried away with my thoughts. The arena. The blood. The nightmares. These tributes whom I will have to send off to their almost inevitable deaths. The little girl I saw clutching at the female tribute's arm as she walked to the front. Peeta Mellark, the boy with the bread.

The woman from the Capitol comes in to the compartment and immediately I decide that however bad Effie Trinket was, this woman is infinitely worse. She gives me a sickening smile and says "They're ready for you. Know what you're going to say to them?" And then without giving me even a moment to reply, to cry that I have no idea what to say to two children the same age as me who have been selected to be sacrificed for the enjoyment of herself and her sick friends, she jerks her thumb at Haymitch and asks "Will he be going you?"

"I doubt it" I reply. I know I'm right, however much I wish I wasn't. Haymitch has got worse since last year. I will have to make this journey alone.

She leads me down the train to a familiar compartment. Inside, the pretty brown haired girl, who's name I suddenly recall as being Allysia, and Peeta are sat with a familiar look of fear and shock on their faces. I remember that look well. It stared back at me everytime I looked in a mirror.

I take a deep breath and open the compartment door. They both look up immediately, and my eyes dart across each one of their faces. When my eyes meet Peeta's, I feel like an electric spark dances through the air between us. This startles me for a moment, so I open my mouth and forget to say anything but "Hi". They both stare at me in astonishment, and neither of them reply.

I sit in the chair opposite them. What the hell am I supposed to say to them? This must be one of the reasons why Haymitch drinks so much around Reaping time. I can't think of anything I could possibly say to change the way they feel at this moment in time. I remember it too well. So I sit across from the in silence, occasionally allowing my curiosity to get the better of me, and glancing across at Peeta. I feel as though something is hanging in the air between us, something unspoken but understood. Only I don't understand it.

I understand more than ever why Haymitch drinks so much, and why he was so reluctant to help me last year. It wasn't because he didn't care, but because there is nothing you can say to these people who have families and friends and lives that could possibly make them feel better about the probability of their imminent deaths. They're looking at me as though I can help them, maybe even save them. I feel like a fraud.

Eventually the silence becomes too much to bear, and I feel as though I have to say something, so I open my mouth and just say: "sorry this happened to you", without even thinking about it. They book look at me, the shock evident on their faces, because mentors are not supposed to apologise, they are supposed to congratulate you on this wonderful opportunity, like so many people to me did last year. It kind of disgusted me, to be honest. There's no way I could ever act like that with Peeta and the girl.

"So what do you do?" I look up. I hadn't even realise that I was staring at the ground until I heard his voice, calm and clear but with a slight edge to it. I realise with a jolt that this voice is sometimes in my dreams, but I hadn't been able to place it until now. Weird.

"Um.." I think desperately around for something to tell them, but my brain seems to have gone completely blank. "Find water. That should be your biggest priority, at least at first. And whatever you do, don't run into the Cornucopia at the beginning. That's suicidal".

Both of them now have a slight look of reassurance on their faces, mixed in with the fear and the tense jaws. Neither of them looked surprised though; I suppose they must have both watched me last year, following these immensely valuable pieces of advice from Haymitch. I scan my brain desperately, trying to think of something else to tell them. "Um, that's pretty much it for now. I can help you more when we get to the Capitol, advice about training and stuff." I should really tell them about how they should play up for the Capitol people as soon as the high speed train pulls in to the station, but I can't stomach it. Even now that they have given my family enoughmoney to last a lifetime, and send essential food to my District every month, the Capitol still make me sick.

I leave the compartment and spend the rest of the journey sitting in a plush velvet chair in the mentor carriage listening to Haymitch's snores and the occasional exclamation of disgust from Effie's replacement. We arrive in the Capitol in the afternoon, just as we did last year. I've been here enough times now not to be audibly impressed by the incredible structure of the city. I know the kind of people that live there now.

When we arrive my tributes are sent off to their stylists. District 12's stylists are still Cinna and Portia and I'm overjoyed with the prospect of seeing him again. When we pulled into the station, both I and the Capitol woman (whose name turns out to be Dixie) tried to rouse Haymitch, but we were both unsuccessful. Now two burly men have gone into the carriage and are half carrying, half dragging him out in his drunken stupor. They tell us that they are taking him up to our suite to let him sleep it off, and I feel a strong wash of anger towards him. I hate this mentoring thing, I really hate it. And I have to do it alone.

I am whisked of to get my make-up and hair done by one of the Capitol's many stylists, just in case the cameras get a glimpse of me. Once they are done my face looks slightly garish and painted on. They obviously do not have Cinna's talent.

Speaking of which, I am then led to a balcony in order to witness my tributes riding in their chariot, and informed that Haymitch will probably not be joining me, as he had alternated between vomiting and unconsciousness for the last three hours. And so, I'm left alone, half an hour before the starting ceremony begins, to contemplate the week ahead and what meagre efforts I can make to prepare Peeta. And the girl, of course, Allysia. I have got to start remembering her name.

The music starts up and the crowd goes wild as the tributes come out in their carriages. I really should have watched the footage of the other reapings, but I wasn't thinking straight. District One and Two look suitably intimidating. I'd bet my life that both the boys are volunteers, and most likely the girls as well. I notice the crowd are screaming even wilder and wonder why until I catch a glimpse of Four; the boy is impossibly handsome, tall and muscular with tanned skin and dark golden hair. He looks a lot like Finnick Odair, a boy from Four who won famously about ten years ago - probably a relative of some kind. I feel my stomach sink a little; the presence of another Odair, or maybe even just a look alike, makes getting sponsors for my tributes that much harder.

But maybe I'm underestimating Cinna, because the part of the crowd that sees the chariots before me have gone absolutely insane, and it must be time for Twelve by now. Sure enough, even before I see the chariot, Peeta and Allysia's faces are projected onto one of the huge screens hanging like banners around the room, both looking impossibly beautiful. Their faces seem to be shimmering slightly, and I can't figure out why until I see the chariot - their costumes are incredible, tight, close-fitting body suits like the one I wore last year, only this time it is glowing and shimmering like the dying embers of a fire. Radiant.

When the Chariots have all come to a stop, I can't help but glance at Eleven, and the dark skin and hair of the girl makes a familiar pang in my stomach, although nothing else about her is Rue-like. She's tall and skinny, but with a stunning face and impossible cheek bones. Looks like the Capitol are going to have a lot to choose from this year, what with the Careers and the boy from Four, my tributes in their incredible costumes and this girl from Eleven.

Let the Games begin.


	2. Chapter 2

Later that night, Dixie gushes over Peeta and Allysia's spectacular performance, stopping every so often to beam at the stylists and begin her spiel of praise all over again. I'm just happy to be back with Cinna, his soft voice and his hazel eyes and his golden eyeliner. I can tell he hates her as much as I do. Eventually I bid the stylists goodnight, and allow Dixie to lead us up to the penthouse apartment, before leaving abruptly to allow me to brief the tributes about the next morning. Then I poke my head into Haymitch's room, trying not to gag at the smell, and tell him in a furious whisper that he must be in a better state tomorrow or I swear to God I'll run him through with a butter knife.

Surprisingly, I sleep well, my dreams haunted by that voice which I know now to be Peeta's, and my father in the woods. When I get down to breakfast, I find Peeta and Allysia already sat at the table dressed in their training gear, with Dixie and most surprising of all, Haymitch. He looks dreadful, but at least he's concious and sober enough to butter toast. Maybe he took my threat seriously last night, because he looks at me darkly and holds onto the knife he's using even after he's finished.

I beam at him, and he rolls his eyes and starts spreading a layer of jam so thick that I swear the jar is half finished by the time he's done. I try not to think about how a jar that size can last a five people for two months in District 12, how ridiculously excited all the children were the day that a tiny pot of jam arrived for each family on parcel day last month. I squeeze my eyes tight for a moment to try and block this out. It isn't Haymitch's fault. He used to be just like the rest of us.

I look at around and realise that Peeta has been watching me that whole time. I'm startled for a moment and feel my cheeks colour before I can stop them. Damn. I have no idea why he has this effect on me. For some reason, all I can think about is his voice in my dreams.

I nod my good morning in their direction and take a seat opposite Haymitch, before helping myself to a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice. This time last year, I had never seen Capitol food before and was stuffing myself, trying to prolong my stamina in the Games. You would think that that would be strange for me to remember, shovelling food down my throat in an attempt to keep myself alive for the next few days, with no idea where my next meal was coming from, now that I have all this money and invitations to dine in the Capitol every year. Truth is, I was much more used to being hungry than I am to being well-fed. It feels unnatural to me. It took a while before I learnt, after becoming victor, not to gorge myself every time we eat. I reckon it comes from some kind of primal urge inside of me, from all those years hunting for hours just to put something on the table. I won't let myself believe that the next meal won't be a struggle to find. I've just about learnt now, though.

I was up for a while last night, thinking about what I'm going to do with my tributes. Well I guess Peeta isn't really my tribute now, is he, because Haymitch is better? So I guess I only have Allysia to consider. But just as I'm thinking this, Haymitch's eyes roll backwards in his head and he crashes face first into the butter dish.

By the time the avoxes have fetched the medical staff, the medical staff have fetched Haymitch and taken him to the infirmary here in the Capitol, it's almost time for Peeta and Allysia to be at training.

"So" I ask them, just as Haymitch asked me last year, "do you have any kind of special skills?"

Peeta looks at me, turning red and looking up at me before turning his face towards the ground. "Um" he answers "not really". And when his bright blue eyes meet mine, the almost familiar shock runs through me again and I find myself saying, without any kind of second thought:

"That's not true. You're strong. You can throw a hundred pound sack of flour right over your head, and you can wrestle".

I hear the words come out of my mouth as though a stranger has said them, but immediately I know them to be true. I have seen it, I can picture it in my head now, Peeta in the market lifting the huge sacks, the muscles in his upper arms straining—

The level of detail in this memory surprises me. I remember the wrestling as well; he beat half the school, came second only to his brother. I seem to have kept track of the boy with the bread.

Peeta is looking at me in shock, mouth slightly open and confusion in his eyes, as well as something else I can't quite make out.

"And you?" I say suddenly, turning quickly to Allysia in a desperate attempt to change the subject as much as possible. "What can you do?"

Her olive skin turns faintly pink and she mutters something inaudible. When I ask her to repeat it, her voice is clear and quiet, and surprisingly confident, and her answer shocks me.

"Are you serious?" I say, staring at her in disbelief. Something that faintly resembles a smile flits across her face and she nods


	3. Chapter 3

"Well then" I say "make sure to save the stuff you're best at for the private performances in front of the Gamemakers. While you're here, make the most of it, try and learn something new - edible plants, tying knots. It's useful, I swear".

And with that, I flash one more reluctant glance in Peeta's direction - his eyes are just as blue as there were last time I checked, perhaps even more so because they are bright and alive and hanging on to my every word - and lead them down. I get another look at the other tributes, the ever-menacing Careers, Finnick Odair's doppelganger, the stunning girl from eleven, before the elevator doors slide shut again and I make my way upstairs to the suite. I'm surprised to find that I can watch all the tributes training on the monitor in the living room. The huge boy from Two doesn't look much like Cato, but could be his twin when it comes to brute force and handling a sword. The girl is bigger than Clove was and although she can't throw knives anywhere near as well, she hits the dummy square in the chest with a spear from 20 metres away. The girl from Four, whom I had originally disregarded as she had seemed so insignificant against her devastatingly beautiful male counterpart, is surpursingly good with the bow and arrow. The girl from eleven keeps her head down, just as Rue did, and sticks to the less agressive training stations - edible plants, knot-tying, making a shelter. It seems to be much harder for her to go unnoticed than it did for Rue - I suppose people are generally much more interested in a tall, long-legged seventeen year old with impeccable cheekbones than they ever would be in a little thing like Rue. People in the Capitol, at least.

I manage to drag my eyes away from them, the most formidable of opponents, and seek out my own tributes. There they are, Allysia at the knot-tying booth alongside the boy from Eleven, and Peeta at the camouflage station. He seems to be doing well - certainly the man in charge seems to be very enthusiastic about Peeta's work. It's hard to see properly in these tiny monitors.

The rest of the day seems to pass in a blur, as does the next, a blur of advice passed down from Haymitch to me, me to them. Haymitch is still in the Capitol's hospital, I'm alone in this again. I send them into the individual evaluations with no more encouragement than the same "Make sure they remember you" as Haymitch gave me last year. And then suddenly we're waiting, waiting together in the suite with the stylists and Dixie and both tributes, waiting for those all important numbers to flash up on the screen. All the Careers get 9s and 10s, including the impossibly beautiful boy from four. The rest of the tributes range from a 4 (to a skinny, trembling boy in District seven) to an 8 - a menacing looking girl from five, who's yellow eyes stand out against her skin like a cat's. When it reaches District 11, the boy pulls a eight - respectable, especially considering he is not as well built as Thresh was last year. The girl pulls a seven, but she'll make up for that in interview - they'll most likely be falling over themselves to sponsor her. And I'm not sure if it's just because she reminds me of Rue, but I'm pretty sure she's a lot smarter than she lets on.

And then it's time for District Twelve. The boys are first, and I tighten my fists and look over at Peeta for a split second. His jaw is tight and he looks as though he's trying to seem as though he doesn't care, but it's so obvious he does. When the large number nine flashes onto the black screen, I see him visibly relax as the stylists and Dixie congratulate him perfusely. He looks over at me and I smile, before quickly turning my eyes back to the screen in time to see Alyssia's score. To be honest, it's her I've been worrying about - Peeta was always going to be ok, with his broad shoulders and muscled arms and strength. She's small, and I'm worried they won't be impressed with her - I just can't take a low training score with everything else to worry about. The ball of tension in my stomach eases slightly when I see the solid gold "8" appear on the screen. Perfectly acceptable. If she nails the interview, we might be in with a chance of sponsors.

At breakfast the next morning, I mention the interviews for the first time. "Do you want to be coached seperately?" I ask them, and when my eyes meet Peeta's I'm suddenly, inexplicably hoping they say yes. When they both agree, something twists in my stomach, something seperate from the constant tension of the last few days. I agree to coach Allysia in the morning, Peeta in the early afternoon.

Allysia is a difficult one to choose a angle for. She looks sweet, but not child-like enough for this to have any lasting effect on the sponsors. She is very intelligent, but quiet in her opinions. There's something in her though, I'm sure of it, a streak of defiance and confidence that I've seen once or twice, and as we reach the end of the training session I remind her of this, I tell her desperately to try and channel it in her interview. She smiles faintly and leaves for lunch. i sit back down, and try to think of anything but the three hours I am about to spend alone with Peeta.


End file.
